The great hall, a place of beauty, art in its purest form. The walls that surround, etched with grand forms, shapes, beings of all sorts. Windows line the walls, the roof with a gentle glow, a beautiful ray of light, plastering the ground as if brushed on a canvas. A gentle sway of a breeze fills the hall, it calms the nerves, the nerves of the poor souls that enter... the souls that are to be...

So here it is, your question, the question that has bugged you for so long. The question, however, has never had an answer, it seems the answers only exist within the nothingness that may await their souls, all our souls, your soul. Drenched in the thoughts of all the reasons there can be for an existence, why here? Why me? Why is unending, it would require an unending creature to decipher, an unending being that holds knowledge beyond your reach, just outside of your grasp. As if a joke, the many and the few, walk the great plains, climb the tallest mountains, burrow into the hells below, if we are here, so must the answer be also. 

The greatest beauty to be held, is not within the eye of any being, one can not hold it, the beauty is not within our thoughts, our imaginations are pathetic under its awe. The air we breathe, the water we drink, the ground we look away from, the friend that we ignore all to see stars we may never reach, a beauty that our wildest dreams could never truly piece together. The ground we believe so little in, will be the only thing to hold us, in our coldest moment, lifeless, unthinking, unfeeling, we will be held close, held warm, given meaning beyond our mere questions, our one unanswered question. 

Tiring, will breaking, the very foundation of our existence is given value by the limits of our lives. Every step we take forward as a people, every progress we ensue, all given value by the inability to achieve, by finding all that is out of our grasp. We accept all our limitations, and we surpass them, we take the broken pieces of life, and we glue them together, creating art that a painter could only dream of imagining with all the creativity that flows within the world. The answer that rests within the heart of life, the reason it is given value, has always been death, yet death itself has and always will be to the many and the few, worthless. 

So, I stand here, in this hall of judgment, in this hall of answers that I will never hold, why accept life without death? Why accept death without a life that has been lived? Why must I fear the comfort it may bring me? I ask all of these questions, however, the only thing my heart calls to within this existence, will always be, is this all that I am to be? 

I look upon myself, I see life as it has come with me, as it has carried me, and as it has buried me here in this pit of misery and regret, void of all the accomplishments I left behind, valued at nothing, nothing to me anymore. I lay here in acceptance of all that has come and gone, I accept what I have done, I accept who I was, I accept the warm, gentle embrace. In life I lived in a regrettable glory, in death I will lay in the glory of acceptance.